


Shadows of giants

by Sphairistike (fugues_of_our_own)



Series: Fedal 2018 [1]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Boating, Canon Compliant, Gen, M/M, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-10 23:58:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15302922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fugues_of_our_own/pseuds/Sphairistike
Summary: 2018 Wimbledon, and the tennis world is hoping for a 10th anniversary Fedal Final.No pressure.





	1. Quarter Finals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The press conferences and the match results are real.  
> Everything else is made up.

Day 7, second Monday - Fourth Round

Rafael Nadal defeated Jiří Veselý - 4R press conference

** Rafa, there’s lots of excitement among fans, the closer it’s getting now towards potentially yourself playing Roger Federer in the final. Well, I know you said last time that you know, maybe, you’d rather someone else. But do you think you’re possibly the only person who’s not excited about you playing Federer, or does it excite you as well? Would you rather not play Federer? **

No, if I am in the final then I am very excited to play Roger, no? For sure I will be very excited if I am in that final. Will be a great result for me, and facing again Roger will be something fantastic.

But if you ask me if I prefer another one, I say yes. (Laughter). That’s the point. It’s about being smart. Overall goal is try to win the tournament. And depends against who you play, you have less or more chances to win. That’s the thing.

 

Day 9, second Wednesday - Quarter Finals

40-15, match point.

Roger blocked Anderson's serve but knew it would go out before he even looked up to confirm. He walked promptly to the net, his smile already in place. He said something pleasant, remembered to keep his head up, and thought about his children and sponsors. Thought about being an Ambassador for Tennis.

There was a strange quality to the cheers. High and a little hysterical. The crowd were standing for Anderson, but stunned by the reversal in a match that had been Roger’s two and half sets ago. That was okay. Anderson deserved it.

He repeated the phrase in his mind, getting ready to say it in press. _He played better today. He deserved it._

He waited for Anderson, so they could walk off together, as per Wimbledon tradition. Ambassador for Tennis.

He waved briefly to the crowd. Many of them his fans. Some would have camped for days, travelled continents. His arm felt separate to him and he hoped his face was under better control. He didn’t sign autographs. Maybe he reasoned it was appropriate to be the modest loser. Maybe the pain was too acute, something he couldn’t separate himself from enough to perform one more basic duty.

He got back to his locker without passing anyone he had to talk to. That was a reprieve. But he could hear a conversation in a language he didn’t speak, something slavic, in a corner of the room. His mind went through the list of who was still playing, and trainers, and coaches, and agents, still trying to solve little things, still trying to keep the hugeness of what had just happened away, before the loss really hit him, and he had to lean his arm onto the polished wood, and let the final score settle into the hole in his mind:  _Game, set, match. Anderson._

*

Roger Federer - QF press conference

** How long will it take to get over a result like that? **

Yeah I don’t know how long it’s going to take me. It might take me a while, it might take me half an hour.

Now I feel horribly fatigued and just awful, it’s just terrible.

** What is it about Wimbledon specifically that motivates you to drive yourself so hard to be here every year? **

That maybe the losses hurt more. That you don’t want to be on the loser’s side. So that motivates me to do extremely well here, because I don’t want to sit here and explain my loss, you know. That’s the worst feeling you can have as a tennis player. But honestly, I just love being around here. It’s a good vibe, you know. We have a good time as a family. I have great memories from here. And my heroes all won here, so always every time I come back here, I try to be like them. 

*

In the shower, he’d found some composure. A way to get through the next hour with his pride intact. Press had gone well. Goodbyes to tournament staff were always heartfelt. He’d navigated his exit proficiently.

Only when reunited with Mirka, the house door closed behind him, his racquet and kit bag off his shoulders, did all resolve leave him.

Later, he lay staring at the ceiling. He walked the grounds in his mind, as they had been on middle Sunday, private. The dark patches of water dripping from the hanging pansy baskets under Centre Court walkway. The statue of Perry, sprightly in bronze, leaping forward for one more shot. The reception of Centre Court, shining like a five star hotel. The outside courts, in equal rows - the playgrounds of future champions. Sometimes, he wished he was back on them. Back at the beginning. In the comforting shadows of giants.

*

Rafa’s volley went over and Juan Martín slipped on the grass and that was the match, finally.

Juan Martín lay still as the roar of Centre Court rose first for Rafa, then for them both.

Rafa went over the net and to his comrade. He waited for him to get up, then pulled him into a hug and consoled him. It did not feel like anyone had lost this match.

*

Rafael Nadal - QF press conference

** The match today had exactly the same duration as your famous final against Federer: 4 hours and 48 minutes. But could you compare those two matches in terms of level of game, or intensity physically? **

I don’t know, no. I think it’s a different kind of match, no? Of course, have been an emotional match, have been I think a great level of tennis, and a good show. But it is a quarter final match, is not a finals match, so that makes a difference. And then I think all the things that happened in that final was much more dramatic than this one. 

*

Day 10, second Thursday - men’s singles day off

Rafa hit practice serves: with the sun, against the sun, to the deuce, to the ad, on the line, into the body, kicking out wide, through the T… and imagined Djokovic the other end, a cartoon of agility, bending and stretching to every ball. 

Consistency would be key. But confidence would be more important still. So once he felt good, heonly kept himself in the zone for twenty minutes, then resisted the urge to do more. 

Overall practice had been limited to an hour today. After yesterday’s marathon, his team had closed round him, issuing instructions he already knew, but was glad to accept. Full sleeps, good eats, deep treatments.  The body was still aching from last night. He was due another physio session, and a knee treatment, and a huge fucking lie down, with some football.

He flomped onto the practice court covers, which had been rolled up into a giant beanbag, and watched the juniors. Weird that he had been here with Novak and Roger on Sunday. It had been overcharged then; too much potential and ambition for one section of practice courts. Something had had to give.

Something had. 

It had been Roger.

Rafa knew all about tumbling out on grass; he’d gotten used to facing defeats. But this would hurt Roger deeply. Probably like his own French Open quarters’ loss. Probably worse than that, with the weight of history Roger now carried, with the flawless progress he’d made up to that point. If watching him was a religious experience, as some people claimed, then it must have been tough to realise that sometimes water didn’t turn into wine. Sometimes, tennis players were just guys hitting a ball with a stick.

Back at the house, after the treatments, after his shower, there was a WhatsApp from Roger: _Well done on the match, Rafa. Do you have any time today? Just wanted to see you before we leave._

He dried his hands on the towel wrapped round his waist so he could reply immediately. _Hi Roger. Thanks :) Okay, where can we meet?_

He put the phone down to dry himself fully, but the reply came at once. He waited until he’d pulled on some boxers and a t-shirt, then leaned against the wall to read.

_Would be good to walk, but maybe not practical. You could come to the house? I’ll send you the location._

_Sure_

_At six? Okay for your match tomorrow?_

Mary called him from the bottom of the stairs: lunch ready.

_Second match. 6 okay. See you!_

It was easier just to tell the household what he was doing, than find a way to disguise it. There was no need to hide this meeting. Not now Roger had gone out. Nobody raised an eyebrow; well, not very high. Mainly they just wanted him back for dinner.

*

He strolled through the balmy evening sun. The residential roads were quiet. He walked with an unbranded cap pulled low, and wore loose jogging bottoms to disguise his shape. His arm muscles showed under his long sleeve top but there wasn’t much he could do about that. 

The house was not the same one Roger had rented before. Like Rafa’s, it was in walled grounds, with security gates, and a view from the top of the hill. Unlike his, it was a glass and slate and timber new-build, smokey and sleek.

He decided to message rather than press the buzzer. The gates opened at once. Roger was already at the front door, harmonised with the house in a charcoal v-neck. He raised his hand in greeting, then watched the gates close as Rafa approached.

They did the usual thumb-up hand-clasp, but it was muted. Roger patted Rafa briefly on the back, then walked into the hall. It was cool and quiet.

‘No one is home?’ Rafa asked.

‘I rented two places. I need to be on my own sometimes.’ Roger drifted round the corner. ‘Come through. Want a drink?’

Rafa stood on the outskirts of the kitchen, appraising the room. It was beautifully done, but sparse. He couldn’t see any of Roger’s stuff. Designer pot plants and perfectly fanned magazines added to the impersonality. ‘Is like a hotel.’

‘Yeah. I need that just now, you know.’ Roger was searching the fridge, though there wasn’t much to choose from. ‘So I have juice or water.’

‘Just water, please.’

Roger got a bottle of Perrier and two glasses. He led Rafa through the sliding doors, onto dark wood decking. He pulled out a chair for Rafa, then took one himself.

Rafa pulled the chair closer and shuffled around until he found a comfortable posture. It was nice to discover the garden had two more levels; one a lush lawn; the other some kind of pergola by a pond. The white butterflies he saw every year were bouncing over the grass. Occasionally, one took flight and rose a few metres, before landing again.

The water bottle glistened in the heat. Roger seemed to have forgotten about it. Rafa leaned forward and indicated; Roger nodded. The lid cracked open and the carbon hissed and Rafa tilted the sparkling waterfalls into each of their glasses.

Roger was composed, but the defeat was there in the long-distance stare, the tense jaw.

Rafa took off his cap and put it down on the table. He mussed his hair. ‘How are things, Roger?’

Roger gave a little shrug. ‘You know.’ 

Rafa stretched his neck from side to side, then extended his legs. They felt stiff, but nothing too tight. He would be able to move well tomorrow. ‘Have been cooking. If we knew you were around still, would have invited you to lunch.’

Roger laughed appreciatively, but didn’t reply.

‘You have been to restaurants...? Seen your London friends...?’

‘Yeah, it’s been pretty social.’ Roger shifted, some impatience clear. He moved his hair off his brow, like he was dismissing an irritant.

Rafa narrowed his eyes slightly, waiting for him to bring up a different topic.

But Roger relaxed and went back to the previous thread. ‘So. What you been cooking?’

‘Just the normal things. In Spain, I know all the fishes. But here, I go just-’ Rafa scanned an imaginary shelf, then grabbed the air ‘-him.’

Roger was laughing now, happily sarcastic. ‘You're really selling it, Rafa, wow. I’ll cancel all my restaurant plans.’

Rafa liked to amuse Roger. He was a pretty amusing guy, in languages he spoke fluently. And even before he’d worked on his Spanglish, Roger had seemed to get that.

Rafa drank some water, then replaced the glass carefully on its ring of condensation. ‘You visited a bit London?’

‘Yeah. Mirka’s friend was holding an art exhibition.’

‘Ah. And leaving when?’

‘Tomorrow.’

Rafa nodded. It would not do to ask about Roger’s tennis plans, right off a loss. Their etiquette was always to talk about other things. To lessen the blow.

Rafa sighed, loudly. ‘Shall we walk?’

‘You want to see the garden? There’s a cool pond at the end.’

‘For swimming?’

‘For fishes.’

Rafa stood up, energised. ‘Okay. Let’s go. Maybe I take one to cook.’

Roger gave that a private, fond smile. He touched his hand between Rafa's shoulders, then went down the steps.

They drifted through gauzy golden light. Rafa felt the plants as he passed; enjoyed the textures and scents. It was dreamy, like they’d stepped into another version of their lives, where they ambled in the evenings and no one noticed them. Like they were just the boys who’d grown up to play the sport they loved, rather than the abstract names that now preceded them. But they couldn’t do this in public; only behind expensive walls.

‘I guess you’ve not had any time to get out, not having a warm-up tournament, doing a lot of training...’

Rafa shrugged. ‘Not too much, this year. Could go out, still. But main thing right now is too much football to watch. That's the real thing.’

‘You got to see the England game?’

‘No, was playing Quarter Final then.’

Little flies busied the air. Some faint cheers crescendoed from the Wimbledon courts, hundreds of metres down the hill.

They reached the pergola, and Roger leaned against a vine-covered post.  ‘I heard you guys had a great match.’

Rafa exhaled loudly. ‘Yes. Stupid, though. Didn’t need to be great.’

Roger knew that Rafa was talking about his missed set point in the second. ‘At least you… got it done.’

Rafa nodded slowly, looking carefully at Roger.

Roger leaned his head back against the post, and stared up into the blue. ‘By the way, I saw your press conference.’

‘Which one?’

‘The one where you said you’d rather not play me.’

Rafa smiled. ‘True.’

Roger tried to keep the joke going, but it was too raw. ‘So I guess I delivered.’

‘Roger-’

‘I’m sorry.’ He shook his head, voice thick. ‘I'm sorry.’

Rafa watched him with imploring eyes. ‘Is okay, Roger-’

‘I didn’t think it’d be… I’d let you down.’ And he remembered the tweeted photo, the one with the tent someone had customised with his logo. ‘Not just you.’

‘Roger.’ Rafa laid a hand above his elbow, let the touch radiate. ‘I feel it the same thing, at the French. But is the sport, no, Roger? They know this. You know this.’

Though Rafa also knew it was more than the sport. Had been for over a decade. And every year, the narrative deepened, and the responsibility grew. Like their very existence had become a job. Just because they were good at handling that pressure, didn’t mean they didn’t feel it.

Roger wet his lips, like he had something to say, but couldn’t quite.

Rafa's eyes widened, inviting him. ‘Tell me.’

‘I really wanted to play you again.'

The confiding way he said it made Rafa tingle. He felt his mind dip into a place it wasn’t wise to go. So he released Roger’s arm, and biffed him with a playful fist instead. ‘Still One and Two, no? We will play.’

Roger nodded.

Some dragonflies had come to visit, dipping and zooming around the water plants.

‘You remember what I give you in Mallorca? You have it still?’

Roger smiled, almost to himself. ‘Of course. It’s on the wall.’

Rafa quoted it with a shrug, as if stating a universal law. ‘ _To be continued_.’

They held each other’s smiles, until Roger dropped his head, sheepishly.  ‘We'll play, okay. But... I wanted it to be here. This year.’

There was no response to that. Nothing could make that happen now. Players didn’t make history; history made players. A chance had come and gone, and they were not in control.

Rafa had already been tired. Now he felt like crying. He'd wanted this too, so naturally. Almost as much as he’d wanted to win. Wanted it differently. He turned and pressed his face to Roger’s shoulder, and closed his eyes. Roger’s hand went to the back of his head, and held him in place. The ache spread through them both.  Rafa kissed Roger’s arm through his sleeve, so slightly he wondered if he’d feel it.

Next thing he knew, Rafa had been moved around against the post, and Roger just seemed to be there, in front of him.  Their faces were very close. All the memories were here, at once. All the things they had put each other through. All the things they had gained and lost. Roger’s hand gripped Rafa’s shoulder and he moved closer but then he closed his eyes and stopped himself.

Rafa watched him for genuine doubt; found none. So he kissed the hand on his shoulder, and Roger’s eyes opened again. All the sadness had been pushed to their edges now. In the centre was dark purpose. Rafa held the look, his own eyes flaring, body jolting with anticipation.

Then Roger met his mouth and they sank into the deep and subtle textures. Plush velvets, rasping stubble, the first hints of wet further inside. Their hands found each other’s faces to frame the force of the moment. Rafa's lips pressed back, trying to tell Roger all with this one gesture: what he meant, what he had always meant. Then he stopped, before the kiss deepened.

But their noses still touched, their breath still mixed. Roger put his thumb to the corner of Rafa’s mouth and pushed, smoothed, memorised the delicious details. ‘It’s not the same, without you.'

They allowed another kiss, lips joining again, for longer, more strongly. But they both knew they needed to get out of this soon, if they were going to be able to contain it. To have it be just one of those things the body did, coursing with chemicals. Or tricks the mind played, clutching for comfort.  Rafa inhaled deeply, then pressed his forehead onto Roger’s, which moved their mouths apart. Their hands dropped from their faces and they laid steadying palms on each other’s chests.

Once they’d completed their gradual disentanglement, Roger took a step away. He swallowed and put his hands in his pockets. ‘I- Thanks for coming over. Felt right to see you.’

Rafa’s breathing was still too forceful to say much. ‘Yes. Think so.’

‘Let’s, err-’ Roger gestured to the house, and they walked silently back through the garden. By the time they reached the decking, it was like they’d gone back in time. Roger sat down with his standard elegance, no longer looking like he was going to cry.

Rafa joined him, no longer feeling unbearably sad.

In fact, it was a lovely evening, and they were both healthy, and still the two best players in the world.

‘I’ll watch your matches when I get time,’ Roger assured him.

‘Is okay. Don’t want you picking up too many ideas, no?’

‘I’d forget it all before next year. I have a terrible memory.’

‘Like you forget you are the greatest of the history, no? And world number one every two weeks. And still biggest Wimbledon champion.’ Rafa clapped him on the thigh. ‘So next year? No worry.'

‘You could be my sports psychologist.’

‘Yeah,' Rafa grinned. 'But cannot be so nice to you much more. Or you gonna beat me again five times in a row!’

‘Whatever, sure,’ Roger laughed, flushing a little with pride and awkwardness. ‘Game face back on.’

‘Yeah.’ Rafa finished his water, then replaced his cap and stood up. He beamed as he embraced his friend. The hug was loose and casual again.

Roger walked him to the front door, then waved him away down the drive. ‘Good luck tomorrow,’ he called.

Rafa acknowledged this with a thumbs up. Wishing most people luck was banal. But at their level, it was a force that could make all the difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've watched 2018 Wimbledon, you'll know what part 2 is.  
> So sorry in advance.


	2. Semi Finals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Roger out, Rafa has his best chance of a Wimbledon title since 2011.  
> Again, no pressure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The match result is real. As is the butterfly.  
> Everything else is speculative.

Day 11, second Friday - Semi Finals

Rafa woke himself up with a satisfying stretch in the sun. The edges of his dream dissolved and the day’s task came into focus. He breathed deeply and cracked his neck, shoulders, ankles. Flexed his toes and fingers. He felt good. 

Mary’s side of the bed was already vacant. He could hear chat babbling up from downstairs. His mother, father, sister, partner, team; all here for him. Since the fourth round win, he’d had a strange certainty that this year they would share something extraordinary. He never vocalised these thoughts; that danced too close to tempting fate. But he’d always known that if he made it into the second week again, people would see the real him. Contrary to common belief, he wasn’t raised on clay. Toni had trained an all-court player, and their finest dream had been SW19. Although he’d come into unimagined fortune at the French, he didn’t want that to define him. Unless he was winning on all courts, he didn’t feel truly seen. 

So the way he’d cut through Wimbledon in the first week - not dropping a set, showing creativity and guile, playful at the net, graceful when stretched - had gotten the crowd, commentators, even other players, to reassess. Yes: at 32, he was still a genuine threat to the established order. And now Roger was out, he’d even heard the word “favourite”. 

He remembered the heft of the trophy, and what it had taken to touch it for the first time, a decade ago. What it had meant to lift the gold up through the dusk, and shine in its reflected lights. 

He stopped his thoughts there, tutting himself. Then got himself up for work.

There were ticket holders beside court number nine, watching his warm up. It was exciting to have their attention. His strikes were clean and mean. He would have been intimidated by himself, today. The ivy-green and sapphire-blue and sail-white all came together in his mind; the whole tournament his canvas. He was here to win and he could see the way. It was not yet done - but it was already in motion.

*

Francis had made a joke when he saw the Semi Final schedule. ‘Anything you want to visit in London? We’ll have half a day before the first match finishes.’

Because everyone knew an Isner-Anderson clash would go on and on. Not many had expected Nadal-Djokovic to start before 5pm. And the respective teams tacitly accepted that the tournament had a sporting obligation to the lesser-known Semi Finalists. People would stay put, for the promise of a famous rivalry later. But if the matches had been flipped, Isner and Anderson could have been playing to empty seats.  Though annoying, that was understandable. That was for the greater good of the sport. 

So, as the first, then second, then third Isner-Anderson sets went to tie-breaks, and the shadows angled into the court, Novak and his team occupied one area of the locker room with games of marbles, and Rafa and his team another with golf putting. It was like waiting in an airport. They did this all the time.

But once it reached 5pm, and there was still no sign of progress, Rafa turned his attention to the tv. 

It was unpleasant to watch his tour mates lumber through their service games, like they were playing to stay alive, rather than enjoying where their achievements had gotten them. And it was clear this would be a Pyrrhic victory for either Isner or Anderson. The real Final would be Nadal-Djokovic. At some level Rafa had already suspected this. But now it was so apparent, his upcoming match had come into uncomfortable focus.

There was impertinence from the bored crowd - someone even shouting at the players to hurry up. There was forced interest from the commentators, reminding viewers this match was more compelling than they might have expected. It was getting undignified. 

Rafa’s hands were twitching. He fantasised about being brought on like a football sub, just to break one service game. He could see the shots laid out like a star chart. He could navigate either of their tired serving patterns. He could end this for everyone, right now.

He sprang up and bounced the thoughts away. He told his team he needed food. He went to the cafeteria for fuel; just something simple and light, keeping the body in the right gear. He got through some rice-cakes and watched a few people meander the grounds far below. 

He started to think again.

The Quarter Final against Juan Martín had been so important. It had broken through an accumulated layer of doubt. Getting into a five set tussle on grass had not ended well for him in recent years. But on Wednesday he'd weathered Del Potro’s serve and forehand and finally put him away. Both men had played some marquee points along the way. It had been a deserved win and a noble loss. The feelings had been good, with the crowd behind him and the sun shining on his game.

But. That double fault on set point when serving for the second. And. Drifting into a heavy five set match after losing grip on his lead. These were shadows in the water.

Whenever press had asked Rafa, since Novak's return in January, when do you think he'll be back to his old form? Rafa had said, He is not coming back. He is always here.

Journalists didn't seem to understand that a few bad results were a part of returning. You had to play yourself in, sharpen your wits. You had to lose a bit to remember that you hated it and next time you'd avoid whatever mistake had just tripped you up.

Observers often rushed to assume that one bad patch meant the end of someone's career. Conversely, they also underestimated how quickly players could find their form. Novak had left the Australian and French unceremoniously, getting increasingly pissed off. But Rafa didn't see defeat and resignation; he saw frustration and unreleased energy. He saw someone hungry to get back what they’d lost.

So when Novak folded in the Final of Queen’s, after having match point against Cilic, and people speculated that he must really have lost his mental game, Rafa saw differently. He saw a player who’d just made a final on grass, two weeks from a slam. He saw a man with only one more step to go until a big win.

When they went into the same side of the Wimbledon draw, Rafa knew that if he played the way he wanted to - the way he felt - he was going to come up against Novak. He’d been preparing for that from the start. True, he always focused on the next opponent, never neglected to prepare specifically. But in between his matches - even in between shots - he could sense Novak taking form. Lurking like a shark.

Finally, the first Semi ended, and Anderson booked his doomed place in the Final. The next Semi Finalists were notified and warms-up begun for the tenth time. Then a Wimbledon official came to explain some details: They wouldn’t play until 8pm. And because play had to finish by 11pm, they wanted to minimise delays. So, although there was still an hour of daylight, they would start with the roof closed, to avoid having to do it between sets.

It was true that indoor conditions favoured Novak, but Rafa saw the logic. It wouldn’t do to make a fuss. There had already been too much disruption.

Ambassador for Tennis.

*

At 11.05pm Rafa walked off court as quickly as was polite. He was furious with himself. He’d squandered that third set point and handed Novak a lovely cushion for his overnight rest. It hadn’t phased him that Novak had taken the first set like an assassin; Rafa was used to starting slow, learning his opponent’s tactics. Once he’d broken Novak back in the second, then taken the set, he knew he was properly in the match. But then, that third set tie break... Those set points that had come and gone... Some had been understandable missteps. But others…

He tried not to betray too much frustration in the locker room. Now was the moment to be constructive, to strategise. His team hunkered round and congratulated him for the excellence he’d shown so far. They knew he could win the next two sets. They were sure he would carry the momentum tomorrow, when the sun would be out and the fresh air let in…

Then the official came back to tell them that the roof would stay closed.

Rafa blinked at him, for a moment doubting his English.

The official continued. Because the match had started with a closed roof, the convention was to keep the conditions the same.

His team raised their voices on Rafa’s behalf. What was this convention? Why had they not been told before the match had begun? Why had they agreed to start on unfavourable conditions for their player - simply to help the event - only to be told that they were now stuck with them?

Carlos checked his phone and found the roof protocols. He enlarged the text on screen and displayed it to the official: _The Championships is an outdoor daytime event. Therefore, in good weather, the roof will only be used if it is too dark to play on without it._

Rafa felt the shadows stirring again. Knew that the providence of the last ten days was over. His golden morning thoughts had now evapourated. He recalled yesterday’s conversation with Roger: _That’s sport, no? They know this. You know this._

He laid his hand on his father’s arm. ‘I need to go and rest. Can’t stay here and argue about this.’

His father understood. Arguing would take valuable time and compound fear of the opponent. It would assume that a disadvantage was insurmountable, rather than another reason to play well. Rafa told himself to accept and adapt. They had sailed into different waters now.

*

He asked to sleep alone. He set a low light and queued up a tv show about migrating birds and let it run.

He dreamed: of missing the team transport car to the grounds, and having to get a bus, and eventually finding one, but taking the wrong route, and seeing the grounds go by, trapped on the top deck, magically far up enough to see into Centre Court, where Novak waited silently by the net and the crowd muttered in disgust and the umpire steadily clocked up time violations, the score board 68-0 to Djokovic.  


 

Day 12, final Saturday - continuation of second men's Semi Final (before women's Final)

He woke, unrested, with the first light. Immediately, a stranger’s comment came to mind. He’d read it underneath a fan compilation video of his greatest shots. Very occasionally, he allowed himself the indulgence of watching them. This person had said: “Djokovic has been built to negate Nadal”. He hadn’t seen the word in English before, but he hadn’t needed to look it up.

When he went down to breakfast, that comment came with him.

*

The Semi Final resumed at 1pm. The court was like a greenhouse with the roof closed. His skin prickled with sweat as soon as he walked on. But he shut out any thoughts other than how to move from point to point as smartly as possible.

He lined up against the baseline to start serving for the fourth set. The crowd was still murmuring with a restless energy. He chose the ball he wanted, raised his hand to Novak, went to serve - then stopped. A white lawn butterfly was resting mid-court. He walked forward and shooed it with his racquet. It took an interest in the colours and flew back with him. For a moment there was the great relief of having an ally, someone else his side of the court. Then it meandered sensibly out of harm’s way.

He re-focused, bounced the ball, took aim for the first serve - and sent it straight into the net.

By the end, there'd been some fantastic tennis. He was proud of the way he'd played. He'd set up so many chances to take back the match. He'd paved the way for his first Final in seven years. 

But. On every important step, he'd slipped. Until, at the end, he had literally slipped: fallen over right where Juan Martín had, back when Rafa had been on the winning side of the net, what felt like months ago. He'd scrambled up, one more point to play; but at 0-40 on his own serve, he knew it was over.

For the first time in weeks, it had been him to issue instructions to his team: I don’t want to talk about the roof in press. I don’t want this to overshadow everything. I don’t want them writing about how I make excuses when I lose. I lost. That’s it.

They packed quickly and got the first flight back. He couldn’t bring himself to watch the women’s Final. He didn’t want to see that court again for a long time. He wanted his own landscape back, his colours; ochre and evergreen and azure. He wanted to plunge into his sea. And forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks, I think we need a part 3.


	3. Doubles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Press conferences are verbatim. Rafa's boat hol, the Mallorcan tsunami, and the rumoured Great White are also real. As is Roger's parents sorting his fan mail.  
> Everything else is made up.

A few days later

Roger drove the kids to stay with his parents, while Mirka met her friend for the day. Roger wanted to train with Ivan as soon as possible, to develop a hardcourt routine. Working from a kid-free home wasn’t usual - but then neither was losing a Wimbledon Quarter Final up two sets and a match point. He felt he needed to go a little deeper with his analysis, this time.

The kids poured out the car and towards their grandparents' house like marbles, bashing affectionately into, then past, Lynette and Robert. Roger got a joint hug from his parents, before Robert guided him into the house with an arm round his shoulder. ‘How was the drive, Rotschi?’

‘Pretty good. Kids thought they saw a wolf.’

‘Ah yes,’ Lynette confirmed. They followed her into the kitchen, and she started making coffee. ‘Was it dark grey? That’s one I’ve seen before. Florian Goehner said it killed one of his goats.’

‘Ah yeah?’ answered Roger, half listening, half tracking the kids.

‘Do you know Florian? He has the farm in the valley, before the crossroads.’  Lenny was trying the handle on the French door, but it was locked, so he wondered off to reunite with his brother and sisters. ‘His daughter wanted to get planning permission for a spa, but her father wouldn’t let her. Put in an anonymous complaint, then it all came out…’

‘Oh. No, I missed that.’

‘Anyway,’ Robert concluded. ‘We’ve got some mail for you.’

He slid two piles along the counter - divided into return cards to sign, and a few letters worth reading.

Roger hesitated. ‘And they’re…okay?’

Robert patted the letters. ‘Very nice. No problem. Some of them talking about the Court One thing. But mostly, you know, “well done”, want something signed, that’s it.’

A part of Roger untensed. Most players got threats on social media whenever they lost a match. The gamblers were always the most virulent, and it was common to have to report or block those messages. But the laments of the real fans hurt more; they chimed with the frequency of disappointment the players already felt, and in extreme could further widen any cracks in their confidence. Roger wasn't as vulnerable to that as the less-successful players, but some losses left him with thinner skin.

However, written fan mail had usually come from a more considered, reflective source, and was often one long compliment. 

Roger sat down. ‘I’ll look at them now, then.’

 

Once he’d read and signed, and talked a little with his parents, and they'd located the kids, he excused himself to the smaller sitting room.

He wanted to watch some of Rafa’s Quarter Final. Not just because he’d told Rafa he would. But because he liked to watch Rafa.

There’d been a long time when Rafa’s success had equated automatically with Roger’s own disappointment. When Roger couldn’t enjoy Rafa’s wins, no matter how graciously his rival had seemed to manage the reverse. But now things had changed. They’d built up two different kingdoms, and most of the time, could appreciate each other’s achievements from a distance.

But it was more than just appreciation. Since their 2017 renaissance, Roger had discovered that he actually liked Rafa to win. Because Rafa winning tied with his own fortunes in some inevitable, undefined way. Because at some point, tennis had come to mean Rafa: fending him off (for a while), falling to him (and accepting that), failing to beat him (and fighting that). Working with him. Working against him. Moulding his tennis around him. Reaching for more, because of him. So when they’d come back from the hinterlands as a unit - ascending together, on the same timeline - it had felt more true and complete than if either of them had done it alone. 

He started watching the match in a relaxed sprawl, content to see Rafa taking the early lead, but hoping for some push from Del Potro. But after Rafa’s second set point slipped away, Roger was almost off the couch, thoroughly immersed: leaning forward on serve, playing every point, coaching both competitors, commiserating missed chances, laughing at ridiculous gets. When Rafa jumped into the crowd at the start of the fifth set, it was so exciting that Roger even reached out to grip someone who wasn’t there. And when Rafa finally won it, and crossed the net to pick up a debilitated Del Potro, Roger started crying, with an aching mix of relief at some resolution, and pride in his sport, and sorrow for Del Potro, yet deep understanding at what progress to the next stage meant to Rafa. And, below all that, unedited dismay at his own failure.

He realised his sons were peering at him from the doorway. 

‘Papa?' Lenny asked. 'Why are you crying?’

He welcomed them over with a laugh, and dried his face. ‘Hey. I’m fine. Just watching TV.’

Leo scrutinised the on-screen Rafa - re-lacing his shoes before he left court - and looked back at Roger, confused. ‘That’s Wimbledon.’

‘Yeah. It was a great match. Want to see some cool stuff?’

They piled in either side of him, so he could show them the highlights video.

‘Looks smaller on screen,’ Lenny commentated.

‘Yeah. Like a ping pong table, right?’

They watched in glassy-eyed wonder, knitting together the real-life Rafa they’d encountered with the man who dashed and leapt and rolled around on-screen. Then when the video was over, they ceased caring, and scampered off immediately.

Roger let the video roll into Rafa’s press conference, interested in what he’d thought of the match. Roger was still surprised how Rafa would tense up in public on topics he chatted about so readily with professionals every day. Under press lights, he sat like he was planning an escape. But it was clear this win had meant much to him. And although he would never describe his own efforts as “epic”, he had at least started acknowledging that other people might apply these terms. Occasionally, he would even credit himself - with all the ease of a clam prising open its shell.

Lenny came back to get the ball he’d left on the couch. Roger turned it into a brief game, to test his retrieval skills. By the time Lenny had won, the video had started autoplaying Rafa’s third round press conference, after he’d beaten the teenager Alex De Minaur. It was half-way through a German reporter’s question, “that you and Roger Federer would make a perfect double. I know that you guys played together in the Laver Cup, but do you think it could ever happen in an actual ATP tournament?”

All Roger’s attention was back on screen. This was not a topic he and Rafa discussed freely.

On-screen Rafa lowered his head and hid from the overhead lights in the shadow of his cap. He fiddled through his answer, drinking deeply, replacing the water bottle, steadying it with both hands, and turning it different ways. “You never know. You can’t say never. Is true that our calendars are not easy, and err…” he looked up, into the past - "probably something that will be nice if happened six years ago, seven years ago, that we were younger. Today’s a little bit more difficult…but why not?” But he was shaking his head emphatically, doubt dominating everything. “If he’s able to do it, I am able to do it.”

Roger stopped the video.

Of course, after they'd first played together at the Laver Cup, they’d been asked about the possibility of more doubles. But that question had been in the context of the Olympics - which would require one of them to change nationality - so it had been an easy one to laugh off. By contrast, tour doubles was technically possible. A whole other world. With totally different reasons why not. Or why.

He looked at his tour mate on screen, frozen before the next question.

 

Roger went back to the kitchen, needing some direction. His mother handed him a bag of string beans and told him to cut the ends off. ‘You look tired.’

Roger smiled sadly, but tried for a joke. ‘Just been watching one of Rafa’s matches. Usual tiredness.’

Lynette regarded him with the knowledge that this was only partly true, but he wouldn't be able to elaborate. Instead she said, ‘Did you hear about the tsunami in Mallorca?’

‘No…' Debris and silt and destruction ran through his mind. Dread sucked at him, until his reason caught up; she wouldn’t have mentioned it casually if there’d been serious news to impart. 'A _tsunami_? Like, a big one?’

‘Big enough to make the news. But then all the news is about weather nowadays, unfortunately…’ She noticed him concentrating on the beans, and went over. She watched him, then rubbed his shoulder consolingly. ‘Shame about you two. With the Final. It would have been nice.'

 

* 

 

Rafa went out on the boat as soon as his team's review and planning would allow. Which was pretty quickly. After the simultaneous thrill and disappointment of Wimbledon, everyone had been keen to go on break.

Mary had needed to get back to work, but he’d mustered some school friends at short notice, for a jaunt along the south coast. There were towns he knew well, and villages he wanted to see, and long blue hours of swimming and laughing and beating his friends at poker.

He stood at the front of the boat. He raised his arms and looked through the water, estimating the depth. He could now admit that there’d been moments on court when he’d envisioned this: poised to dive into the jewel sea, jumping in celebration after his precious third Wimbledon title. This image, unbidden, had flashed as he'd been about to convert crucial advantages. Its imagined relief had tempted his mind away from the task, and so he'd sent the ball wide, or long, or into the net. It made him so angry, what his brain sometimes did without permission - especially when it cost him a version of the future he could already see. 

He lowered his arms and gazed up at the horizon, instead of the sea. He reminded himself of all the things he needed to.

Later, his friend tried to show him a bit of yoga. But it was annoying not to reach the advanced versions of positions, so he flopped out, and got his phone to check the golf scores. There was an unexpected message from Roger:

_Hola Raf. Hope you’re okay. Heard about the tsunami. I guess you’re in Mallorca so thought I should check you’re all fine? Adios amigo ;-)_

 

Rafa waited until later before responding. He told the guys he needed to make a call, and went outside to the stern. The sound of laughter carried from the cabin, though the words were indistinguishable through the glass. 

He sat on the lowest step, just above the landing platform. The sun had reclined but it was still warm enough for just shorts and naked chest. The sea lapped bronzed waves against the low back of the boat. Rafa leaned on the fibreglass and absorbed the borrowed heat of the day.

He tapped on Roger’s contact, then listened to the international dial tone for long enough that he thought better of it, and was about to hang up. 

But Roger answered, out of breath. ‘Hey!’

‘Hi.’ Rafa felt tense. ‘Is okay to speak now?’

‘Yeah, I just-’ a door closed, and then Roger’s voice was clearer - ‘went somewhere quieter.’

‘You are with the kids?’

Roger’s smile was audible. ‘Yeah. God. I tell you, Rafa. You won’t watch a full episode, or match, or anything again, once you have them.’

Rafa grinned in response, and followed the grain of the step with his fingertip. ‘I know this. Is why we have the big family, here. Always you can pass your children to someone. Like when you need to watch the football.’

Roger’s voice was settled now. ‘So, what happened with the wave?’

‘Was a little bit the damage to some restaurants. And was a tourist, who died. I think he was too close to the sea.’

‘Oh really. That’s bad.’

‘Yes. But for us there was no problem. We are all well.’

Roger said nothing for a while. Then, ‘You’re on the boat?’

‘Yeah. I take a little holiday, just at home.’

‘I can hear the water. And, are you- uh-’

Rafa waited a while. ‘Hm? Am I…?’

‘Where are you?’ Roger asked, finally.

‘The south west. Across is Ibiza.’ Rafa stood up, peering out towards the headline of the white island, above which the evening colours were distilling into lilac, peach, scarlet, turquoise. ‘Wait.’ Rafa made it a video call, then held up his phone to the chalky horizon. ‘Can you see?’

There was a slight silence. ‘Not the island. I can see you. Concentrating.’ 

‘Oh sorry. Wait-’ Rafa flipped the setting, and slowly scanned the view. ‘Can see it now?’

The beauty of the evening was indisputable. Apparently Roger only felt the need to say, ‘Pretty good signal out there.’

Rafa turned the camera back to himself. ‘We do not go far out on the water. Better being near the shore.’

‘That doesn’t make it hard for…you know. Privacy, and things.’

Rafa shrugged. ‘If they want the photo, they take. No matter how far we go out, they have a lens. So I just say, okay. You want to see me lying on a boat? A bit funny you do not have a more interesting things to do, but fine. That’s the real thing.’

‘Hey, well maybe we don’t need to work on our game, anymore. If that’s all people want to see. We can just come to court in our swimming trunks and sunbathe.’

‘Sure. Can just chat each other across the net, like a neighbours. “Another strawberry, please” to the ball kids.’

Now Roger’s face was on screen, too. He was in elegant-casual mode, as only Roger could do. A pale-blue, round-neck cashmere sweater, tantalisingly soft, and his waved hair swept back along the side-parting.

‘Ah, Roger,’ Rafa smiled. He sat back down on the step, propping his phone on his knees so they could talk face-to-face. ‘Good evening.’

Roger had that nostalgic look Rafa had been noticing more often. Fondness tinged with melancholy. It had mostly appeared during Roger’s last few victory speeches over him, which had only pissed Rafa off in context. But here, sharing news across the quiet evening, it tugged at his sympathies. He titled his head, questioning. ‘Looks like you are still feeling it bit bad.’

Roger considered. The moment passed where he could have covered up his real feelings - as he would have done with most other competitors. As he would have done with Rafa, years ago. Instead he rubbed his forehead and frowned. ‘Yeah. Can’t seem to feel positive right now.’

Rafa mimed shaving, gliding the back of his fingers along his cheek. ‘Maybe you should get rid of this stubble? “Make the new man” - how would you say?’

Roger looked sceptical but amused. ‘Yeah? You don’t like it?’

‘No, I do like it, of course. Is very handsome on you.’

‘Well. I don’t think it’s my major issue, right now.’

‘Bueno. So next step: need to get you on a boat. Bring your family to the Balearics.’

Roger’s eyes brightened. ‘Yeah? We were there, actually. In May. On Ibiza.’

Rafa sensed it was within his powers to joke Roger back to temporary happiness. ‘I know, Rogi. Big excitement for Mallorquins with you so near. Everywhere the news, and the queues to see you. Could not get around.’

Roger smirked. ‘You know, thanks for the sarcasm but you were in Paris by then, so that’s rubbish.’ His expression softened, and he looked a bit embarrassed. ‘Which, you know, is also why I didn’t contact you.’

‘How did you know when I am in Paris?’ Rafa teased. ‘Checking on my social media, Roger?’

‘It was the French Open. I know when the French Open starts.’

‘Oh?’ Rafa gave a sly grin. ‘Thought maybe you had forgot by now, with all your clay holidays…’

Roger shook his head in fake exasperation. ‘Jesus. You’re worse than your fans.’ Then he narrowed his eyes. ‘Watch out. I might play next year.’

‘Oh yeah? For real? Your team not gonna say “no, you are too old to play more than three tournaments this year…”?’

‘Fewer tournaments means more time to develop my game. So maybe I’ll show you some things I’ve been working on. Just for clay.’

Rafa shrugged, in faux innocence. ‘Okay. And maybe, they will work.’ 

Roger’s grin dissolved into a laugh, and Rafa joined him. ‘Ah man. I think people should know you’re actually an arrogant bastard, you know!’ He returned his gaze to Rafa, eyes shining, and sighed heavily. 

‘So what you been doing, Roger? Apart from improving these clay weapons?’

‘I watched your Quarter Final.’

Rafa’s expression flickered. The knowledge of Roger watching him had always felt unnerving. ‘Was a long match,’ he offered, cautiously.

‘Yeah, I’m exhausted. If it was anyone else calling, I wouldn’t have picked up.’

‘But now you can ask me for a commentary?’

‘Actually they got Andy Murray to do it, you know that? It’s funny.’

‘Yeah, he said to me.’

‘It was a pretty emotional match, Rafa. Honestly, I cried a bit.’

‘I know. I feeled it.’ Rafa lowered his gaze, almost mournful. ‘Was sorry for Juan Martín.’

‘Some of those points, the tension was crazy.’ Roger shook his head, still disbelieving after all these years. ‘You are so intense.’

Rafa registered Roger’s little blush after he said this, and the way he had to look away. He tracked Roger’s averted eyes as he spoke, his voice instinctively quieter. ‘There was two of us on court, no?’

‘Yeah. But one of them’s always you.’ Roger lifted his gaze again.

Rafa’s smile drained as Roger’s attention poured through his body.  For several seconds they could not look away from each other. Lots of things rushed in - remembered shadows, exploratory touches, evening scents, undefined yearnings. Things from those other times, when the skies had spread out for them, when the years had never ended…

Roger corrected their sudden drift with a deft change in tone. His inhale was faint but sharp. ‘Anyway. Don’t think I can watch your Semi Final now, sorry. I’ve had enough drama.’

Rafa exhaled loudly, his heart thudding back into rhythm, and nodded his concurrence. ‘Yes, I agree. Stop there.’

Roger swallowed, and nodded as well. ‘So, uh - how is the boat?’

Rafa cleared his throat. ‘Is always great. With some school friends. Have been los piratos, a bit too many beers, lots of fish. Have been good.’ Rafa shuffled so he was sitting along the step, and tilted the phone screen to give a view of the sea beside him. ‘Here. Now you are on board.’

Roger looked past, to the sunset beyond. His voice was totally unguarded. ‘I do want to be. One day.’ He licked his lips, unsure how his next words would feel coming out. ‘Maybe when we play doubles.’

Rafa’s eyebrow lifted in surprise - though his tone held familiar resignation. ‘But you’re too busy, Roger, no?’

‘It would have to wait until we’d- I’ve…’ 

Neither of them was sure what it would have to wait on. Or how long. The Laver Cup had seemed to come out of nowhere, too. 

So Rafa didn’t force him to articulate. ‘Have better wait, then. Beside. You need to learn it a little about the sea, if you not gonna be scared out on the water.’

‘Yeah?’ Roger laughed, grateful now for Rafa’s steer away from conversational danger. ‘What would I be scared of?’

‘Maybe the sharks. Newspapers say was a Great White here the other month. They see the shadow in the water.’

‘You know I come from South Africa, right? One Great White isn’t going to put me off.’

Rafa smiled. ‘No? Is also the technical things you need about the boat. So you don’t gonna steer us away into some ocean.’

‘Or onto a rock.’

‘Sí. But at least a rock, would mean on land. Then could get help, and some room service for you.’

‘Very funny. If we do get stranded on a desert island, obviously I know you’ll do the cooking.’

Rafa laughed. ‘Of course, come on. No one will ever eat if you are in charge. Better you make some clothes for us, from the plants, about what fashion we gonna wear to get rescued.’

‘You know what, Rafa? Every day I’d hold a press conference, just to piss you off. Ask you about the opponent for tomorrow-’

‘Opponent would always be you-’

‘Exactly. So think of how many times you’ve already had to answer that question.’

‘Enough times.’

Roger was laughing. ‘“Enough times”, right. I get that impression.’

‘How times can I say about you? You’re the greatest, you’re the best, can watch you all day. . .’ Rafa’s eyes rolled the whole arc of the sky. ‘We’ve said already all the things.’

‘Okay. So no press conferences on the island.’

‘Yes. None. Or I don't gonna cook for you.’

‘Fine. Then we’d just play.’ Roger shrugged happily. ‘We’d be stuck, but. . .’

The pause brought the fantasy into focus.

Rafa licked his lips. When he spoke again, his voice was pensive. ‘Roger.’

‘What?’

Rafa looked sideways at him; hard to tell whether his smile ended in a wink or a grimace. ‘Think we should talk it like this?’

‘Like what?’

Rafa deepened the look, until the scepticism was clear. ‘About…on this desert island together.’

Roger went silent - though he didn’t look chastened. He rubbed his mouth, pondering the answer. Then he shrugged. ‘No. Maybe not. I- Sorry. I’m pretty tired.’

‘It’s okay, I understand. Is just-’ Rafa swallowed. ‘Bueno: we make a decision, we stick to it.’

‘Well. I’m generally good at that.’

‘Me too. Generally.’

Roger opened his mouth to reply when Rafa’s phone buzzed and a green stripe flashed up “Maribel”.

Rafa almost dropped his phone. ‘Roger, sorry, my sister is calling. Said we would talk.’

Roger had switched back into media mode. ‘Yeah, of course. I should go. Send her my love.’

‘Yes, okay. Err- Ciao, Roger.’

Roger smiled reassuringly, reaching into the phone’s screen to finish the call. ‘Bye, Raf.’

 

Rafa's chat with his sister was short, but by its end, the sunset had dissolved into the sea.

During that time, Roger had sent him something. He opened it: the selfie they'd taken before their Laver Cup doubles session, with a caption:  _Like you said in Mallorca. . . To be continued._

It was dark enough now that the water and sky were just different shades of the same blue. The skin on Rafa’s arms was pricking up with cold, but he stayed sitting, bathing in the quiet sea sounds.

Eventually, he went back inside.

 

The kitchen was warm with boiling pasta, and smelled of onions and salt-wet clothing. 

He sank onto the bench and started putting olives in his mouth.

His friend opened a beer for him. ‘Who were you speaking to? Xisca?’

He took the beer and enjoyed a long first drink. ‘No. My sister.’

 

After dinner, Rafa looked at the selfie again. Then he slipped quietly outside, and photographed the glowing deck, with the glittering coast behind. He sent it to Roger, in reply:  _Continuarán…_

 


End file.
